![]() ![]() My own stupid fault for believing for one single second she’d take care of them. Regular, except she still has my phone, purse and keys in her handbag for safekeeping. Then she was gone, off in a puff of tequila-scented pheromones for some bump and grind at hipster-guy’s pad, no doubt. ![]() Last I saw of her she was lip-locked with some vest-top-clad hipster with thick-rimmed glasses. I have no intention of trading my virgin status for a drunken fumble in a back alley with some random who barely knows my name.Īnd now she’s bailed on me, typical Kelly Anne style. Who knows, you may even meet someone hot and finally ditch the V card, she said. We’ll have a great time, she said, just a bus ride and a couple of drinks, she said. ![]() This stupid scenario is all Kelly Anne’s fault, insisting it wouldn’t be a proper birthday celebration unless it involved getting trashed in some sleazy club in the backstreets of Brighton. I’m dressed for a quick coffee on a cloudy afternoon, not for clubbing through a stormy evening – leggings and a strappy cami under a fluffy teal cardigan that holds more rain than it keeps out. I wasn’t planning on being out this late, eighteenth birthday or not. I can hardly see through the rain.ĭamn my birthday for being so late in November.ĭamn me for not thinking harder about my wardrobe choices. Cold water squelches between my toes, and my breath is misty, wet hair like frozen straw against my cheeks. My stupid pumps aren’t cut out for this weather. ![]()
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